Never Is A Long Time
by northernexposure
Summary: SPOILERS FOR 9.1! Sequel to my story 'All The Things We've Never Done'. Ruth returns Harry's keys.


Never Is A Long Time

Author's note:

Okay, so here I am, jumping on the start-of-the-season bandwagon. I can't help it – last night's episode was just wonderful, from start to finish. Oh, the angst, the wonderful, wonderful angst…

Haven't written these characters for a long time, so I hope they're not way off. And I hope this works. And I hope you like it… etc, etc.

This is a sequel to my story 'All The Things We've Never Done'. I had been trying to write it for a while, but after last night's ep, it just seemed to fall into place. I think it fits. Excuse the crappy title, I am rubbish at them.

XX

Ruth stared up at the house. There were no lights on, no signs of life within at all, just as she had expected. It was why she'd chosen this exact time, after all. She knew Harry to be in a meeting with the new home secretary that was likely to last for hours. Now that Harry had changed his mind, now that he had decided to stay in his role for the forseeable future… well, there was much for the two of them to talk about.

His keys – the ones he had abandoned so abruptly on her desk all those weeks ago – hung heavy in her pocket. Ruth traced her fingers over them where they lay, hearing them shift and jingle. She should have done this weeks ago. In fact, she should have done it the very night of that encounter – she should have put them back on his desk once he had left.

But she hadn't. She didn't know why. It wasn't that Ruth had been contemplating the possibility of their use. It was just that she'd been so shaken by their encounter, by the heady whirl of half-forgotten emotions that his kiss had re-awoken, that to dump them on his desk seemed too blunt, somehow. Too hurtful. And yet, not doing so had made the whole thing far more difficult. Ruth had missed her slot, and finding another – where she could return the keys without causing either of them further embarrassment – had been impossible. So she hadn't. She'd just... kept them, where they were right now, in her pocket, trying to pretend they didn't exist. Trying to pretend that confused, illicit moment hadn't really happened at all, except in her guiltiest dreams.

Until now.

Now, it was vital she return them, whether or not their sudden reappearance caused hurt. His proposal, so unexpectedly given and so swiftly refused, had removed the possibility of their being able to float on, quietly, until the incident joined the rest of their hazy past. But Ruth had been labouring under a false apprehension: that Harry had put that kiss behind them just as she had been attempting to do herself. Instead, it seemed to have germinated a seed, a seed that had grown unchecked, possibly encouraged by her failure to give up the objects that even now jangled against each other in her pocket as she stood, staring at his door.

Taking a deep breath, Ruth walked up the short flight of steps as she pulled the keys from her pocket. All she needed to do was push the keys through the letterbox, and vanish back to her own flat. Ruth doubted Harry would say anything about the incident, or renew his proposal. Since she had said her piece on the roof, and had seen the hurt, tired resignation in his eyes, he hadn't attempted to speak of the matter again. It was nearly over, and once the keys no longer weighed on her soul she'd be able to forget how close he had stood to her in the tragic peace of that beautiful churchyard, of how warm his breath had been on her ear as he had leaned in, so close. Of how her heart had somersaulted when he'd spoken, of how her breath had caught in her throat…

Blinking, Ruth looked again at the door. There was no letterbox. She checked the wall on either side to see if there was one there, but there was none. _How can he not have a letterbox? _She asked herself. Then, glancing over her shoulder, she noticed the small, quaint box at the foot of the path. Of course, it made perfect sense. Security was Harry's profession, and what made him a target. A letterbox leading directly into his home was simply inviting trouble.

Ruth contemplated her limited options. She could leave the keys in the box – though she discounted this almost as soon as the idea crossed her mind. The padlock she could see glinting in the light from the street would be no match for someone determined to remove it.

The second option was to keep the keys, and give them back to him tomorrow, on the Grid. Her heart balked at that one.

Which meant she was left with one recourse. To open the door and go inside.

Ruth sighed, pulling the keys out of her pocket and looking down at them. She could be in and out in seconds, and yet the idea of stepping over his threshhold… Squaring her shoulders, she shook off her disquiet and reached out, fitting the key to his lock.

The door opened smoothly, silently, pushing inwards to the dark. Ruth hestitated for another moment. There came a skittering noise from somewhere, the sound of paws careening across a smooth floor. Scarlett appeared from the end of the hallway, charging toward the doorway with abject abandon. The little dog barked when she saw the new arrival was not her master, skidding to a halt and hopping backwards on her feet, sniffing the air.

"Scarlett," Ruth whispered, stepping inside and pushing the door shut behind her as she stooped to hold her hand out to Harry's faithful pet. "Ssh, it's okay. It's me. You remember me, don't you?"

At the sound of her voice, Scarlett began to wag her tail, and trotted forward for a pat. Ruth scooped her up and scratched the dog behind her ears before putting her back on the floor.

She went to the hall table, reaching out to drop the keys on the polished oak. Her fingers lingered there, brushing one final time over the now-familiar metal. Then she stepped away, swallowing the lump that had risen, unbidden, in her throat.

She was about to walk back to the door when a faint light at the end of the hallway caught her attention. It was coming from Harry's kitchen. Ruth wondered if the housekeeper had forgotten to turn off a light and, without thinking, went to investigate. Scarlett bounced along beside her, excited by this unexpected company.

The kitchen was empty, but warm, and Ruth realised that the oven was on, turned down low. She bent down to look, and saw that a small casserole dish stood on the lower shelf. She was momentarily panicked that actually, Harry was in somewhere, and would appear at any moment. But then Ruth spotted the handwritten note on the kitchen table, beside a place set for one. A bottle of wine had been left open to breathe, beside a lone wineglass.

'Dinner in oven, Sir Harry,' read the note. 'Beef bourginon. Hope the Bordeaux was a good choice. Scarlett fed and walked. In at 10am tomorrow for your laundry. Best wishes – Margery.'

Ruth read the note twice, her eyes tracing the still life of the single place setting. She blinked, suffused, suddenly, with a potent feeling of sadness. Sometimes there was nothing more lonely than one wineglass. She reached out, tracing her fingers over the silver handles of the cold cutlery. Ruth imagined Harry returning home, later, and sitting down to this meal. Would he change first? Or would he simply remove his tie and roll up his shirtsleeves, as she had seen him do so often before? Would he put on the radio – or some music, perhaps? Would Scarlett sit at his feet, or curl up in the basket that stood beside the back door? Ruth looked down at the little dog, who was sitting at her feet, looking up at her.

"Does he talk to you, Scarlett?" She whispered, watching the dog's ears prick up as she heard her name.

Ruth looked up, around the kitchen which looked so lightly used. She was filled with a sudden desire to see more of the house. For all she had told him that they could not be more together than they already were, Ruth realised that she really knew nothing about the man. She had been here before, it was true, but those visits had always been brief, and Ruth had only ever stood, awkwardly, in the hallway. Now, though, she found she wanted to be able to place him here. She wanted to see what his life was like, away from her, away from the Grid. There was so much, Ruth realised, that she did not know about Harry beyond his profession. Now that she was standing here, in his home, it occurred to her that there was more there than she had perhaps allowed for. She felt dazed, clouded in unreality – as if she was watching herself from far away, or in a dream. She should leave, she knew that, but something made her stay. She would, after all, never have this chance again.

Leaving the kitchen, Ruth crossed the hallway into the living room. It was comfortably furnished and spotlessly clean, but, like the kitchen, seemed little used. A cream sofa and chairs dominated the space, arranged around an ornately tiled fireplace. Books lined the walls, and Ruth gravitated toward them, running her fingers along the prisine spines. She turned, surveying the room. One chair seemed more worn than the others, a woollen rug spread across it to disguise the worn threads that were beginning to show on the arm rests. Ruth crossed to it, seeing the small table that stood to its right. Several volumes of books were stacked atop one another, beside a small decanter of amber liquid, a cut crystal glass, and a lamp. She picked up the foremost book and smiled at the name on the spine – Le Carré. It was a copy of _Smiley's People_.

Absently flicking on the light, Ruth sank into his chair, opening the book and running her fingers over the slightly foxed pages. Noting the book's age, she checked the indicia, only a little taken aback to discover she had in her hands a first edition, which was likely worth more than a month's salary – for her, at least. She let the book fall open to the bookmark Harry had left in it – and froze, her breath stuttering to a halt.

He'd used a photograph to mark his place, an image of her she didn't recognise. Ruth picked it up, holding it to the light. It must have been taken before the Cotterdam incident – she looked younger, even to her own eyes. She seemed to be leaning against a rail, and the river was in the background. In the photograph, she held a drink, which meant it must be the Houses of Parliament bar. An evening sun burnished everything, and she was laughing, oblivous of the camera, one hand at her temple, pushing back her hair. The edges of the image were curled and frayed, as if it had been held often, and she wondered how long it had been his bookmark, and through how many different volumes it had marked his evening reading, and how many times he had paused to contemplate the image he held as he moved it, or whether it was now used only out of habit. The celuloid version of her looked happy, and carefree, and an entirely different person to the one who now stared at her, years later, trying to frame how the image was taken, and why it was here, and what it meant, now.

"Don't you remember that evening, Ruth?"

His voice spoke from the doorway and she jumped, turning to look at his dark form as she shot to her feet.

"Harry!"

Harry stayed in the doorway, his hands deep in the pockets of his black wool coat. She had no idea what to say, or how to apologise for this monumental breach of privacy.

"Harry, I-"

"It was to celebrate the end of Jo's probationary period. Her promotion to full agent," Harry continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "One of the few times we all went out together. Did you even know that had been taken?"

She shook her head, dumbly, looking back at the image still in her hand.

"It was Malcolm. I… appropriated it before he had a chance to show everyone. Without his permission, in fact. He must have noticed, but to his credit, he said nothing."

Ruth nodded. "I didn't know-" She trailed off.

"You didn't know what, Ruth?"

She shook her head again, eyes blurring.

"Perhaps that's one of the times," he muttered.

Ruth looked up with a frown, not understanding.

"One of the times that, had I asked, you would have said yes," Harry clarified, dryly. "I won't pretend I didn't think about it. Or something like it."

Ruth blinked away tears. "I'm sorry," she blurted. "Harry, I'm sorry. I came to leave your keys, and I…" she tailed off, having no explanation to offer. "I didn't – I didn't mean…" Ruth shrugged, hopelessly. "I'll go."

He nodded as she moved toward him, but didn't move from the door, blocking her path like a colossus. Ruth drew to a stop in front of him.

"What were you looking for here, Ruth?"

"I don't know." She looked up at him, and saw the sadness in his eyes. "Nothing. I wasn't looking for anything."

Harry sighed, a long, slow sound that spoke of a deep emotional fatigue Ruth recognised. "I said we would move on, Ruth," he said, finally. "But I can't."

Tears filled her eyes again. "You can. _We_ can. I'll always be here for you, Harry. You know that. I just can't… I'm not that person any more. That woman in the photograph. I'm too damaged, too… You have to find someone else."

He looked at her as if she'd spoken in a foreign language, and shook his head with an incredulous laugh. "Ruth… you have to know that's impossible."

"It's not," she insisted. "Maybe it'll take time, but-"

"Time?" Harry cut her off. "Four years ago I thought I'd never see you again. But here we are, and I-" He shook his head, painfully.

Ruth fell silent, thinking about the single wineglass standing next to the single dinner setting. She didn't want him to be alone. The thought filled her with an ache so deep it cut beneath her ribcage like a knife. "I have to go," she mumbled, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. "Please, Harry, let me go."

He moved, slightly, but not completely. Ruth made to push past him, but as she did so Harry reached out, hands on her arms, trapping her against the lintel.

"Ruth," he said. "Seeing you, sitting there, in that chair… Please, Ruth, please don't walk away. Not again. If you didn't want to be here, if you didn't feel anything…"

Ruth shook her head, once, violently. "It won't work. It can't, It-"

"We can try," he said, moving his hands to cup her face. "Ruth, let's just try. If it doesn't work, I'll retire, for good. You'll never have to see me again. I'll take my Grand Tour, and disappear with all the other old Spooks. But Ruth..."

He traced his thumb across her lips and Ruth was transported back to that dark, confusing night on the Grid. Her heart thundered into her throat as she looked into Harry's eyes.

"There _is_ more, Ruth," he whispered, hoarsely. "Don't you remember?"

He kissed her, and even if he hadn't been holding her still, she wouldn't have been able to flee. Ruth could feel the hunger below the caress, could feel everything he was holding back. She responded as helplessly as she had the last time he'd cornered her like this. Her tears spilled over her cheeks, shed for all the things they'd never done when the time was right, shed for the sheer waste of everything that could so easily have been between them.

Harry pulled away, but didn't let her go. He stared into her eyes, as if trying to read everything in her mind. She wondered, briefly, what he saw there.

"Harry," she whispered.

"I love you," he said, softly. "It occurred to me the other day that I'd never actually told you that."

Ruth shut her eyes, leaning forward to rest her head against his shoulder. He moved his arms to wrap them more firmly around her, holding her close.

"I can't marry you, Harry," she said, feeling him grow very still at her words. "Not… not just like that."

He still didn't move, as if trying to gauge the meaning of her words.

She sighed, pulling back and wiping her cheeks. "You must be hungry."

Harry raised an eyebrow at the change of subject. "I… don't really feel as if I have much of an appetite."

Ruth nodded, extricating herself from his arms. She turned, heading for the kitchen. "Well, Margery left you a beef bourginon. I'm sure if you started eating it…"

Ruth went to the oven, turning it up. She turned to see Harry had followed her, a confused look on his face. She didn't blame him. Ruth wasn't really sure what she was doing herself. She just knew she couldn't bear the thought of leaving him to eat alone. So she'd stay, just for now. She'd have a glass of wine with him, and maybe they could work out a way past this thing that had grown between them until it was so huge that it could not be stunted, either by time or by circumstance.

She went to the cupboard and pulled out another glass. Harry relaxed slightly as she poured them both a drink. He shrugged off his coat, disappearing for a moment to hang it on the hallway peg. Then he returned, and she passed him a glass.

"Is there enough for both of us?" Harry asked, taking a sip before opening a drawer with more cutlery.

"I think it'll probably stretch," Ruth told him, opening the oven door and lifting out the dish.

Harry laid another place for her as she served the meal on to two plates. "So," Ruth asked, as she put his plate before him and they both sat down to eat. "What do you think of the new Home Secretary?"

Harry shrugged, "Well, he seems to have his head screwed on the right way, but time will tell," he said, as he picked up a piece of beef and slipped it under the table to Scarlett.

"She'll get fat," Ruth observed mildly, as the little dog took her treat to her basket and settled down happily.

"She deserves a treat or two."

"Hmm."

"What do you mean, hmm?"

Ruth took a sip of her wine. "Nothing. So do you think you can work with him?"

Harry took a mouthful of food and chewed thoughtfully before nodding. "I think so, yes."

"That must be a relief."

"It is. Although my judgement hasn't always been up to scratch on that score…"

"Don't beat yourself up about that, Harry," Ruth told him. "No one else caught it, either."

Harry looked up at her fondly. "You did, Ruth. _You_ did."

They stared at each other for a moment, and Ruth could tell what he was thinking.

"Yes," she said, softly.

Harry froze. "Yes… what?" he asked, slowly.

She sighed. "Yes… this is a good start."

Harry smiled, something like hope blooming in his eyes. "Okay," he said. "That's good enough. For now."

Ruth smiled, and took another sip of wine.

[END]


End file.
